CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kneel or fight.
Giovanni
I step into the dimly lit club, the bass from the music thumping through my chest like a second heartbeat. My eyes scan the room, cutting through the haze of smoke and flickering lights. Bodies move to the rhythm, but I ignore them and move toward my usual booth in the corner.
Gratefully, I drop onto the leather cushion and hear it groan as I loosen my tie. It’s a Famiglia spot, but I take nothing for granted and study the room again.
My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. Sal’s messages can wait. Or maybe they can’t, but I will decide when the time’s right.
The jazz track changes, low and lazy, and the front doors swing open. Emilio Moretti strides in. No rush, no wasted movements. He’s a man who’s fallen from grace, reduced to a soldier after years of playing the game wrong, but you’d never know it by looking at him. Black suit, sharp as a blade, and the kind of face that tells you he’s been in a few too many fights but never lost the important ones.
I straighten in my seat as his eyes sweep the room, calculating. When he spots me, his lips curve—not a smile, exactly, more like a weapon he’s considering using.
“Giovanni,” he says as he slides into the booth across from me, his voice smooth, practiced. A cigar dangles between his fingers.
“Emilio,” I reply, leaning back like I own the place. “You’re late.”
“You’re early,” he counters, striking a match. The flare of the flame illuminates the hard line of his jaw as he lights the cigar. The first puff clouds the air between us.
I pick up my whiskey, swirling it slowly, pretending his little power move doesn’t bother me. It does, though. Just like everything lately.
“I was surprised to get your call.” He studies the cigar. “Thought you would be back in New York by now.”
“I still have a few things to take care of.” Like fucking Franco. The man thinks he’s untouchable. That handing Ari to the Russians secures his throne. But thrones crumble, and even the most trusted consigliere can bleed. My time will come. I’ll make sure of it.
Emilio’s eyes narrow before he leans back, smoke curling around his face. “Sure you do.”
The words lands like a challenge, and my jaw tightens before I force a smile. This is how these meetings go—small talk that feels like a knife, everyone testing to see who’s holding the sharpest edge.
The conversation stays shallow at first, a game of verbal fencing. Emilio comments on the whiskey. I lie and say it’s imported from a private distillery, though I doubt he cares. But the dance doesn’t last long before he cuts to the point.
“Another Russian in the family,” Emilio says, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “It could’ve been you.”
There it is. A jab wrapped in silk. My jaw tightens, but I force my grip on the glass to stay loose. I let the whiskey burn on the way down, hoping it drowns the bitterness crawling up my throat.
Could’ve been me . The words dig deeper than they should. Like a splinter lodged under my skin, impossible to ignore.
It should’ve been me.
I was supposed to be the one standing beside her. Not because of love—hell, I don’t even think she’s capable of that. But because it would have secured my place at the top. My father’s approval. Franco’s respect. A seat at the table no one could question.
But Franco cut me out. Handed her over to the Volkovs like a pawn in his endless power games, like I didn’t even matter.
Emilio’s smirk sharpens like he can see the thoughts twisting in my head. “Sure, nothing to do with you,” he says. “Except she was supposed to be yours.”
“Supposed to doesn’t mean anything in this business.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, and Emilio chuckles, low and rough.
His laughter grates on me. Because he knows. They all know. The rumors are everywhere—Giovanni Santoro, overlooked again. Passed over for the goddamn Bratva. My father hasn’t said it outright, but I see it in his eyes. The disappointment. The way he’s started looking at me like a pawn instead of a king.
Because that’s what Franco wants him to think. The trusted consigliere .
And me? I’m nothing but an afterthought. A piece of collateral in a game I was born to win.
I lean back in my seat, swirling the whiskey in my glass. Not for long.
Emilio’s smirk widens, and I hate how it feels like he’s peeling back a layer of my skin. “Franco’s always got his hand in something. You think he’s playing fair with this Russian deal? You think Maxsim’s going to stop at marriage? What’s next—a Bratva consigliere at the table?”
“Don’t remind me,” I snap before catching myself. I exhale through my nose, trying to steady my tone. “Franco acts like this was his grand plan all along. Like we should all clap for him for handing the Bianchis to the Russians on a silver platter.”
My bitterness tastes like acid, and Emilio knows it. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his cigar balanced between two fingers.
“You sound resentful,” he says, voice soft but cutting.
“You don’t?” I counter, my glare sharp. “They’re letting outsiders crawl all over the Famiglia , and everyone’s just nodding like sheep. Meanwhile, the shipments are late, the docks are a mess, and we’ve got rumors of moles in the ranks. But sure, let’s blame my father’s ambition for the discord in the ranks.”
Emilio tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. He doesn’t speak immediately, letting the silence drag just long enough to make my chest tighten.
“You know,” he says, “not everyone’s thrilled about this alliance. Makes me wonder who’s actually on their side.”
The question hangs between us like a loaded gun. I force a chuckle, though it comes out sharp.
“Don’t insult me, Emilio. I’ve bled for this family.”
“Have you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or is your family sowing discord to gain power?”
My grip on the glass tightens, the cool surface pressing into my palm. I want to snap back, to remind him that he’s nothing more than a demoted soldier who’s lucky to still have a seat at the table. But I hold my tongue. That’s what he wants—to see me crack.
Instead, I lean forward, dropping my voice low. “You talk a big game, Emilio, but let me give you some advice. Be careful where you aim those questions. You wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re doubting the wrong people.”
His eyes glint, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he takes another slow puff of his cigar, the tip glowing red in the dim light.
I shift gears, trying to steer the conversation back in my family’s favor. “If my father was running the show, we wouldn’t need the goddamn Russians.”
Emilio’s silence speaks louder than words. He just watches me, his gaze steady, unblinking. It’s like he’s weighing me on some invisible scale, and I’m not sure which way it’s tipping.
“My father,” I continue, more to fill the silence than anything else, “isn’t happy about this setup. Can’t say I blame him.”
That gets a reaction—a subtle lift of Emilio’s eyebrow, his head tilting slightly.
“You speak for Sal now?” he asks, his tone neutral but sharp.
I hesitate, realizing too late that I’ve said too much. I shrug, trying to play it off. “Just an observation. He’s got a lot on his plate, you know? Keeping New York intact while Franco hands off shit to the Russians piece by piece.”
Emilio doesn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable. But I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, and it makes my skin crawl.
It’s time to shift the conversation. “Volkov’s got a cousin,” I say, leaning back in my seat. “Nikolai. Smart guy, but he looks hungry. Like he’s waiting for his chance.”
Emilio exhales a stream of smoke, his lips curving into that infuriating smirk. “Hungry men are dangerous. Maybe we should feed him.”
The words linger, heavier than they should be. I pick up my whiskey, hiding the unease crawling up my spine. Nikolai’s just a name, a piece on the board. But the way Emilio says it makes me wonder if I’ve landed on something important.
Before I can probe, his phone buzzes on the table. He picks it up, glances at the screen, and his expression hardens.
“Problem?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. He doesn’t answer immediately, just staring at the message like he’s trying to solve a riddle. Finally, he flips the screen around so I can see it.
A text. One line.
Shipment delayed. Dock 32 compromised .
I set my glass down, my chest tightening. “The Feds?”
“Unlikely,” Emilio says, his voice colder now. He puts his phone back on the table, his movements slow. “Feels… cleaner. More deliberate.”
His choice of words tells me he knows more than he’s letting on. The Feds make a mess when they hit us—sirens, seizures, and reports splashed across the news like they want a medal for it. This? No, this sounds like someone who knows the game.
I drum my fingers against the table. “That’s the third shipment this month, isn’t it?”
“Fourth,” Emilio corrects, his voice sharp. “But who’s counting?”
His sarcasm grates on me, but I ignore it. “And no one knows who’s behind it?”
Emilio exhales through his nose, the smoke curling into a lazy spiral. “Plenty of suspects.”
I lean back, stretching my arms across the booth like I don’t have a care in the world. “Careful, Emilio,” I snap, my voice low, dangerous. “You wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re doubting the wrong people.”
His smirk returns, slow and sharp, like a knife sliding from its sheath. “Who said I was doubting anyone? Just an observation. You seem… restless.”
I clench my jaw. Restless? He’s baiting me, and I won’t let it work. Let Franco and the Russians think they’ve boxed me out. While they play their little alliance game, I’ll be busy assembling my own board, piece by piece. The difference? My pawns are hungry. And hungry men are the easiest to control.
“You know what I think?” I say, leaning forward. My voice drops so only he can hear me. “I think you’re jealous. You don’t like that I’m still at the table while you’re running errands like some rookie. Don’t act like you’ve got a clearer picture of things just because Franco threw you a bone.”
The smirk falters, just for a second, but it’s enough. I feel a flicker of satisfaction as Emilio shifts in his seat, his confidence cracking under the weight of my words.
Before Emilio can fire back, my phone buzzes on the table. I pick it up, my eyes narrowing at the name on the screen: Salvatore Santoro.
My father rarely texts. When he does, it’s either vital or a trap.
I glance at Emilio, who’s watching me now with an unsettling calm before I swipe the screen open. The message is short, cryptic.
Keep your eyes open. The wolves are closer than you think.
A chill runs down my spine, but I force my face to stay neutral. What the hell does that mean? Does he think I’ll betray him? Or is he talking about someone else—Franco, Emilio, maybe even the Russians? The Famiglia is full of predators. The only question is which one will strike .
I lock the screen and slip the phone back into my pocket. Emilio raises an eyebrow.
“Something important?” he asks casually.
I shrug. “Nothing that concerns you.”
It’s a lie, but I’m not about to share Sal’s cryptic warnings with Emilio. He already thinks I’m scrambling to keep up; no need to give him more ammo.
The meeting ends as abruptly as it began. Emilio doesn’t bother with a goodbye.
He slides out of the booth, his cigar still smoldering between his fingers, and makes his way to the exit.
I stay seated, watching him go. The tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease until the club door swings shut behind him.
But then I see it—through the haze of cigar smoke and dim lights, Emilio pauses just outside the club. He pulls out his phone, his other hand slipping the cigar from his lips as he makes a call.
I can’t hear him from here, but his posture says enough. The way he stands, stiff and deliberate, tells me he’s not calling his girlfriend or checking in on some routine task.
He’s reporting.
And whoever is on the other end of that line… they aren’t on my side.
I lean back in my seat, the weight in my chest growing heavier. Emilio’s loyalty is as slippery as oil. One minute, he’s toeing the Famiglia line; the next, he’s smirking like he knows something I don’t. And I hate not knowing.
When I step outside, Emilio is gone, leaving only the faint smell of cigar smoke behind. The cool night air feels sharp against my face, but it doesn’t clear the fog in my head.
My phone buzzes again, but this time it’s not Sal. It’s a message from one of my contacts—a guy who owes me more than a few favors.
Heard about the docks. Word is someone’s feeding info to the Bratva. Careful who you trust.
I stare at the screen, my fingers tightening around the phone. The Bratva? The Bianchis? No. It doesn’t make sense. Franco wouldn’t allow it.
Unless…
The thought hangs there, heavy and poisonous.